


The Repulsion of Self, Intertwined and Entangled with a Scottish Play

by takemyhandandjumpintotheabyss



Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Macbeth, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemyhandandjumpintotheabyss/pseuds/takemyhandandjumpintotheabyss
Summary: I wrote this a while ago in the midst of a breakdown escalated by a certain event, but it still feels relevant.
Kudos: 2





	The Repulsion of Self, Intertwined and Entangled with a Scottish Play

An irrevocable disgust,  
A dirt no number of showers can remove.

_Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine._

Can one be at peace with oneself knowing the damage they have done,  
Knowing the harm inflicted?

_Yet here’s a spot._

A paroxysm of emotion,  
A dying sun’s final flare.

_Out, damned spot! Out, I say!—One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky!_

Scrambling to recover,  
Lashing out to protect the husk that remains.

_To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed._

It’s broken,  
And I broke it.

_I am in blood, stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er._

One can almost hear,  
“Cry the tears of blood from the heart you’ve slain.”  
“Bury yourself in the guilt that consumes.”  
“Ravage,  
Pillage,  
Destroy the body and mind that has done this.”

And for once,  
Someone listens.

Smiling through tears,  
Skin is slashed,  
Like land is divided up by a king,  
A shaky hand carves borders into flesh.  


_Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  
To the last syllable of recorded time;  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,  
And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
Signifying nothing._


End file.
